When the Hummingbirds Return
by Emanium
Summary: A fight with Bane causes Bruce to fall into a lengthy coma. While his body remains unconscious, he wakes up in the distant future and attempts to find his loved ones, not knowing that this future is six months after his own death.
1. The Arrival

Bruce woke to orange skies.

Endless stretches of orange, small patches of gold. He raised his hand and waved it in front of his eyes. Sunlight streamed between his fingers.

He remembered darkness, not light. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth, not the faint scent of daffodils filling his nostrils. Mud ponding at his boots, not the surrounding walls of tall, uncut grass. He remembered a dull ache as his head hit solid brick. He was falling down a dark, bottomless well. The picturesque landscape seemed unreal, distant.

A hummingbird landed on his finger, gently nibbled at his thumb. Bruce watched as the delicate ruby-throat flapped its wings determinedly and lifted off. He had a certain fondness for precision-flying creatures. Intelligence was beauty.

Then another hummingbird crashed beak-first onto his stomach. Bruce was instantly reminded of a deliberately clumsy reporter. The few shuffles the hummingbird managed for reorientation was hardly redeeming enough.

 _The hummingbird migration,_ he realized belatedly. He last remembered unforgiving numbness from the winter cold. _It's spring._

He sat up slowly, putting his weight on his right side, only to find that his left forearm was as good as new. No bruises, no broken bones. He distinctly remembered Bane snapping his arm in half.

He braced himself for abstract boundaries. Meadows disappearing into big black voids. Odd indications of a dream world. He was, after all, donning his usual set of black silk pajamas. But the view that greeted him was none other than a familiar red farmhouse. Neighboring that was a yellow house blending harmoniously into the slowly saturating background.

The humble Kent farm.

 _Except it looks a lot older,_ Bruce noticed as he approached the building. The roof was evidently less maintained, as there was a corner lifting off with a breeze. Rain seemed to have washed off the brightest of hues. Why the Kents would allow their beautiful residence go to waste was a good question for Clark. The door creaked open at his push. There was no lock.

Water was still dripping out of the kitchen faucet. Each drop as slow as Bruce's heartbeat as he quietly investigated the interior. One look at the gas meter confirmed that someone was still a regular visitor, if not an occupant. Weariness was weighing heavily on his eyelids.

Where was Clark anyway?

Bruce was about to fill a glass with water when the front door creaked open. No footsteps. The man was hovering inches above the timber planks. He found the light switch with one hand. His face was haggard, his beard untrimmed. He flicked on the lights and looked up.

Then he froze, completely, from head to toe. The light switch broke off with a loud clank. The ceiling lights flickered twice before dimming into darkness. His breathing stilled into complete silence.

Bruce did a double take at the odd combination of his casual civilian clothes and the unique hovering. He frowned disapprovingly. "You shouldn't do that."

The man stared back blankly, his expression uncomprehending. His bloodshot eyes were trained on Bruce's face, his jaw slack, his hair standing on end. His glare was at an intensity that should make anyone extremely uncomfortable or worried for their own safety. Anyone except Batman.

Bruce took a step into the orange glint of the sunset. His crossed his arms and gestured casually at the fridge. "Can we go get something edible? There's nothing in there."

"Holy mother of God." The man's face contorted dramatically. He started to back away.

"Clark?" _Something's wrong._ Bruce held out a hand in his most non-threatening gesture and tried to close the distance between them. Possibilities flashed across his mind. _Kryptonite. Mind control._ "Clark. Listen to me," he said carefully. "Tell me where you were, who you fought." _It could be Crane's fear toxin, or Ivy's poison._ Either way, Clark was deeply affected.

Evidently Clark wasn't listening at all. The cautious movements Bruce made seemed to make him more distraught. He took a shaking step backward and stumbled down the front porch. Supposedly invulnerable skin was immediately torn by a protruding nail. The wound left a trail of blood as he scrambled away from Bruce, still panting and frantic.

"Clark." Bruce landed on him in an instant, pinning Clark's wrists to the ground. His Batman persona kicked in. "Superman, snap out of it!"

What followed was a strangled cry. A sound so unlike Clark that Bruce instinctively loosened his grip and allowed the man to flee. Clark stumbled back again, stomping at dirt with all his might to crawl away. He pulled out a phone from his jeans and dialed a number.

"Charles!" Clark immediately snarled into the phone, his eyes never leaving Bruce's face. "Hallucinations! Jesus fucking Christ I'm seeing the realest hallucination I've ever seen in my life. It fucking landed on me on my front porch. I need the drugs, I need them now!"

In a frantic bout Clark threw his phone at Bruce. It bounced off his thigh, landing in the heaps of dirt that Superman had dug up. He was going to start throwing dirt, when Bruce had had enough.

"I said _snap the fuck out of it!_ " Bruce's flying kick went straight to Clark's temple, knocking the alien sideways. He was about to add another powerful blow to his head when Clark fell over. He fell face first onto a grassy patch of land like a defenseless human being.

He reminded Bruce of the clumsy hummingbird.


	2. The Confrontation

"You're weak."

That was the first thing Bruce said to him when he woke. His raging concussion had gotten slightly better. Clark looked around. Drawn curtains, dimmed lights, a half-open book on the desktop. A soft mattress against his back, a pillow supporting his neck. It was still his bedroom.

"What happened to your superpowers?" Bruce demanded, his voice as monotonous as a Watchtower computer. He looked almost disappointed. There was an underlying streak of emotions that Clark couldn't immediately tell. It was either worry or pain. Or both.

"Antidepressants."

If Bruce was surprised, he didn't show it. "Explain." He demanded again.

Clark looked uneasily at his fingers. There was dirt trapped in his fingernails. "In order for human drugs to work on alien physiology, I need to expose myself to large amounts of Kryptonite consistently."

Bruce stood up from his chair and stared down at him, his expression unreadable. "I want to know why you are taking antidepressants."

Clark snorted. "Let's not pretend it's not obvious."

"It's not." Bruce insisted unrelentingly.

"Anti means against. A depressant is a drug to treat the illness of the same name." Clark rubbed his eyes gingerly, prying away the pressure that was building behind them. His headache was returning at a surprising rate.

"You know that isn't what I asked."

Clark shrugged. He pointed at the bookshelf on his right. "Check the dictionary if you don't believe me."

"Clark." Bruce sat down again and massaged his temples wearily. "Last I saw you, you weren't depressed. You also didn't look so..." He gestured vaguely at the air. "Worn."

"Damn straight." Clark snickered. "Now I'm explaining my mental illness to my own homemade chocolate chip hallucination. I've officially hit rock bottom."

Bruce regarded him silently for a moment. It was the closest of Batman's reactions to being utterly stunned speechless. He leaned forward in his seat and pulled Clark's chin to his direction. Looking straight into Clark's eyes, he stated word by word, "I am not a hallucination."

Clark pulled away once Bruce's grip loosened. "Then what are you?" He grunted. His hands were gripping tightly on his sheets like a young boy caught in a fright.

Bruce hesitated briefly. "I'm your best friend." He said firmly. "And I'm here for you."

To his surprise, Clark burst into laughter instantly. He rocked back, shaking with intensity, his hands clutching his stomach. Suddenly he was choking on laughter, coughing and wheezing. Bruce stood up to pat his back, but Clark shoved him away. He straightened his back and swallowed cautiously until he could breathe normally. Then his shoulders slumped again.

"You're kidding me." Clark said coldly, once he recovered his speech.

"If you can push me away, it means I'm real." Bruce countered easily. He crossed his arms and stepped back, keeping his distance.

Clark clenched and unclenched his hands, testing the sensations of touching Bruce's body. The feeling belonged in a distant past. It was surreal. "You and I both know hallucinations feel as convincing to the hallucinator as they need to be."

"Frankly, Superman, I don't think you have enough imagination to dream me up as convincingly as you now perceive."

Clark winced. "Don't call me Superman."

"Early retirement?" Bruce returned mockingly. "Financially crippling, that is. The remaining years of your immortality dependent on a Daily Planet reporter's salary."

The mention of his immortality seemed to hit home, for Clark's control broke a little. Red seeped into his eyes like a ghost of his heat vision. "I don't work there anymore." He grumbled.

That did hit Bruce as news. The sarcasm on his face cleared and gave way to, for once, poorly disguised astonishment. "You quit your job?"

"I had to."

Bruce scowled. "Why wasn't I notified of this? I own your company."

Clark shook his head. He was feeling dizzy, and he needed more sleep. His daily dose of Kryptonite was more effective than Doctor Mid-Nite's predictions.

"Is Charles on his way? I need new prescriptions."

Bruce threw an object onto his lap. It took all of three seconds for Clark to recognize that the clamped metal was his phone. "You didn't make the call. It doesn't take superpowers to destroy a phone. Serves you right for not using WayneTech merchandise."

Clark drew a long breath and clutched his phone tightly in his hand. Then he placed it on his bedside table and started to climb out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Bruce asked quietly. He made no attempt to physically stop Clark from leaving his bed.

"Getting my medicine. Because you're not going to get them for me."

Bruce stared at Clark's shivering back skeptically. "Evidence?"

"Because you're a figment of my imagination. Demons themselves wouldn't volunteer to shut down their portal to hell, would they?" Clark drew the sliding door open and began scrambling in the mirror cabinet. A few bottles fell into the sink, making a series of nonresonant noises.

It was Bruce's hand that picked up the familiar white bottle. "Here."

Clark took it from him absentmindedly. He popped five tablets into his mouth.

"Don't you think that's a bit much?" Bruce grimaced. That was forty-five milligrams each of Mirtazapine.

"Alien physiology." Clark took a gulp of cold tap water. He threw the second cup of water on his face, relishing the refreshing sensation. Water dripped off the lock of hair that once was Superman's signature spit curl. "I'm feeling better already."

"Really." Bruce retorted. "I'm still listening."

"You won't be in the morning." Clark spoke resolutely into the mirror.

"Is that why you can't even bring yourself to address me by name?"

Clark twisted the tap so violently he almost broke it off. "You're not real." He said again, staring at his own reflection. Haunted eyes with deep, dark circles stared back at him. He looked nothing remotely like Metropolis's most worshipped superhero.

"Please keep trying, I can almost see it working."

Clark pushed Bruce out of the way. He managed to make the man stagger one step away from him. It was an accomplishment of sorts, considering his currently depowered and sleep-deprived state.

"What are you so afraid of, Clark?" Bruce snickered coldly.

"Fuck off."

"You should thank your best friend for teaching you that crude language, Boy Scout." Bruce followed him back into the bedroom. He almost bumped into Clark when the latter spun around abruptly.

"First of all, you're not my _best friend_." Clark growled. The threat in his voice would have made the Dark Knight proud. "You're my _husband_. Second, don't pretend for one fucking second that you'd be here for me, because you aren't. You're gone. And you forever will be."

Bruce hardly had time to digest the notion of _marrying_ Clark, any more than the impossible idea of leaving him. His eyes narrowed at the phrase. "Gone. How?"

"Gone! Dead!" Clark shouted, raising his hands angrily. His face was red with frustration. "A decaying corpse lying six feet underground! You're _mortal_ , Bruce Wayne, your cells deteriorate, they mutate, and they die. I can expose myself daily to thirty kilos of Kryptonite, and still I won't catch up to you."

The confusion on Bruce's face cleared. In replacement a mixture of intense disappointment and anger filled his expression. "You're intentionally killing yourself with Kryptonite." He ground out.

"Why do you care? You're no better than a hologram." Clark stripped the sheets down and climbed onto his bed. He ought to stop arguing with a visual manifestation of his nightmare. "I'm going to sleep. You better be gone in the morning."

The retort Bruce had on his lips never made it to fruition. He silently walked around Clark's bed and sat himself down in his cushioned chair. Clark maintained his hunched, semi-foetus position as he slept. As his breathing finally smoothed down to softer snores, Bruce found himself watching. Eventually Clark turned in his sleep. The face he had known so well in his past came to meet his gaze, lines of worry erased and brows unfurrowed. He came closer to the man in Bruce's memory.

Bruce cleared the desktop and crossed his arms, leaning forward to rest his head on his makeshift pillow.

Clark was going to see him in the morning. He would make sure of that.


	3. The Consultation

Bruce tapped the earpiece tentatively. There was no reason why he couldn't rebuild the Justice League comm link in a Kansas farmhouse. From scratch, using primitive tools and metal waste. His grudging respect for Stark's invention of Iron Man managed to surge one level.

A beeping noise finally reached his ear. He switched to private and dialed the first number that came to mind. _Beep, beep._ A string of electrostatic noises followed.

"Hello?" A confused female voice seeped into his ear. His link was not registered within the current network. Neither did it send out a geographical location.

"Diana."

More confusion, followed by cautiousness. "Who is this?"

"Batman."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "What do you want?" She demanded.

"I need to know-"

"Who do you work for?" She pressed, her voice bordering on threatening.

Bruce's mind clicked and immediately backpedalled. Diana hadn't trusted him at all. "I'm Bruce Wayne. Batman." He said sternly, risking exposure over the network.

"You're a hacker. A blackmailer. Don't pretend otherwise." Diana concluded, and Bruce suppressed a heavy sigh. On second thought, he should have called Dick. He just thought with Clark's reaction, Diana might be able to handle it better than his son.

"I understand from Kal-El's somewhat impaired speech that I am dead." Another long pause from Diana. Bruce was about to describe his strategy in defeating Wonder Woman to prove his identity. Her suspicions, however, suggested that that was perhaps not the safest course to stride. "You deleted surveillance footage number six-four-eight-two-seven-two from the Watchtower database the night you brought Steve Trevor on board. You owe me that much for not recovering that footage."

The silence that stretched over thirty seconds almost forced Bruce to rethink his argument. Then he heard her sudden inhale.

"... where are you?" Diana's voice was shaky, bound by equal amounts of hope and fear of disappointment.

"Smallville."

A moment later, he looked up and watched a blurry figure speed across the velvety night sky. Diana landed gracefully in the fields and stared, her expression speaking of astonishment. Then she leaped towards him and gave him an almost suffocating embrace.

"Oh, Bruce!" She pulled away momentarily to inspect his face, tracing his features. "It _is_ you. But how? Is this magic?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't know. Last I remembered, I was fighting Bane. Then I passed out and woke up in the meadows."

"How is Kal? Where is he?" She glanced at the closed front door.

"Sleeping." Bruce eyed the upper floor. "He lapsed into something like a panic attack when he saw me."

"Poor Kal." Diana shook her head. "He must have been terribly shocked. It's only been six months since..." She trailed off, but the meaning was clear to Bruce.

"Actually, he still thinks I'm a hallucination."

"A hallucination?" Diana repeated emptily.

"He has been exposing himself to Kryptonite to raise the effectiveness of his antidepressants. Apparently Charles has given his approval of his medications." Bruce's suspicions rose at Diana's lack of surprise. She bit her lower lip when she noticed the subtle change in his gaze. "Have you known?"

"That Kal has been exposing himself to Kryptonite? Yes, I have suspected it." Diana looked away briefly, unable to meet Bruce's accusing stare. "Upon that speculation, J'onn and I have hid the League's supply away from Kal in fear of self-harm. But it doesn't stop him from finding traces of the mineral from time to time. We confiscate it when we can."

That explained why Clark was still alive, despite his fragility. "Shouldn't he be restrained? Supervised for his own sake?"

Diana shook her head. "Bruce, he is no longer a member of the League. He has rights, as much as any other human being on this planet."

"Not a member of the League." Bruce repeated, frowning. "Why?"

"Your death, it… it destroyed him. He cannot wield his powers properly." Diana explained in exasperation. "Whatever it is that he does, it's part of a grieving process. An inevitable period. We cannot interfere."

"In case I haven't made myself clear, Clark is _killing_ himself." Bruce growled.

"The price of immortality is huge. It is the subject of every mortal's envy, but it is a curse as much as a blessing." She smiled wistfully. "Not everyone wants to carry that burden."

Another puzzle piece seemed to click into place. "Where is Steve Trevor?" Bruce demanded quietly.

When the answer didn't come, Bruce pressed on. "Does Superman know?"

Diana shook her head.

"Is that why you let Superman drain his life down a sink? Because you want to follow his footsteps?"

"No, Bruce." Diana shut her eyes. Her voice was strained.

"Is Trevor dead?"

Diana bit her lip nervously, made the slightest shake of her head again. "He's lying in a hospital bed, in MedStar." She whispered, her eyes solemn. "I watch the moonlight spill on his face. Reflections of passing car lights, dim yellow street lights, casting his shadow against the stark white of his pillow. That fragility suffocates me, now more than ever… yet at this moment, I wish nothing more than to share it."

"You all gods and goddesses envying the ephemeral life forms beneath you." Bruce was unable to contain his mockery. "Pathetic."

"Death gives life meaning, Bruce." Diana crossed her arms protectively. "Immortality is a beautiful name for something as cruel as eternal imprisonment."

They stood in silence, each gripped by their own thoughts.

Eventually Diana spoke, changing the topic. "You say you remember fighting?"

"Yes." Bruce acknowledged with a dull grunt. "Underground tunnel. Bane broke my arm and fractured my skull."

"You look not a day older than that… that horrible event." She gently caressed his face.

"So do you." _And Clark._ Bruce thought. _Clark can look untidy. His beard can go on forever. But his skin will forever be taut, his hair forever black._

Diana sighed, clearly remembering a time that he had no way of knowing. "Kal was devastated. He visited you every day, brought flowers to your bedside and spoke to your unconscious form."

"Tell me when it happened."

Diana hesitated momentarily. "Thirty years ago."

So he was around sixty when he died. _Not a terribly short life,_ he thought. _Not as long as he would have liked, but he was prepared every mission for someone to end him on the battlefield._

"You weren't…" Diana swallowed. "... killed." At Bruce's grim expression, she continued. "I cannot be condemned for disclosing what cannot be prevented. It was… cancer. Induced by lifelong exposure to Kryptonite. Kal did everything he could to save your life. And you fought bravely, up to your last minute."

Bruce nodded numbly. Cancer. It sounded like a terribly painful way to go, but knowing Clark had fought the uphill battle with him was somewhat heartwarming.

"Clark said I was his husband."

Diana smiled. "You are. He proposed… you should ask him."

"By all logic, this is all happening in my head while I am unconscious." Bruce warned, more to himself than Diana. "I might just vaporize when the sun rises."

"But maybe…" Diana placed her hand on Bruce's chest, feeling once again his strong, beating heart. "You are here for a purpose."

"What purpose?" Bruce snorted. "We're talking destiny."

Diana looked down at her Bracelets of Submission. "We all believed it at some point. It is why we are here. Why Kal-El and I, not of your kind, fight for the peace of your planet. Maybe you are here to be someone's savior."

"I'm Batman." Bruce muttered. "I'm not anyone's savior. I will never be a knight in shining armor."

"A knight cloaked in the darkness of nights, but a protector nonetheless." Diana leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Kal is about to wake. You should be by his bedside. And I… I have to be by someone's side when they wake as well. I say farewell, Bruce, but I hope to see you again."

She left as she came, like a shooting star crossing the skies, granting wishes that were thought to be unheard.


	4. The Confirmation

"You sleep like you fight."

The deep rumble characteristic of a retired masked vigilante sounded heavenly in his ears. They weren't words to him, just a string of syllables. Syllables that his supercomputer of a brain should be able to process naturally.

Clark couldn't, because his Kryptonite-induced hallucinations had taken the form of… _Bruce_.

Sunlight streamed between the thick curtains. Golden rays poured into the room. A black-clad figure was standing between Clark and the source of light. For a vision his mind had conjured and assembled over drugs and a raging concussion, his Bruce was the most stunning sight since... _It has been six months since I watched someone pour dirt onto a closed coffin._ He realized with startling agony.

Bruce, his hauntingly beautiful hallucination, was standing just two feet away from him. Clark was close enough to reach out a hand and touch that ghostly pale skin. But that courage did not come to him. He feared the moment his fingertip brushed against the illusion, it would melt away. He would be left alone again. That fear gripped him hard, suffocated him. It reminded him that once he grew accustomed to this hallucination, there was no getting out.

But he would reject nothing so beautiful as his mind's projection of Bruce, would he? His vision of Bruce was alive, healthy, at the prime of his life. Looking every bit as invulnerable as a Kryptonian on Earth.

"That is an awfully long response time." Bruce's voice again, low and snark. Even the biting sarcasm was true to his personality.

Clark decided that he quite liked his morning intrusion. He was wrong to push this hallucination away the night before. His imaginary friend would be a good companion to have around.

"Come into the light." Clark whispered.

"I'm already in it."

"You're blocking it. Come closer, where I can see your face." He raised his head from the pillow, hoping to ever so subtly close their distance. There was a disconcertingly pleading note in his voice.

Bruce took a small step towards him. His knee brushed against the bed. He angled himself slightly. In that instant, sunlight poured across his face, lighting up his strikingly handsome features.

Clark smiled warmly. His hand was aching to touch that face, but he maintained his restraints. "I said I wouldn't see you again in the morning, but now that you're here, I was hoping you would stay."

For a moment, Bruce looked thoughtful. "It depends," he concluded.

Clark frowned. Was this his hallucination being deliberately difficult? "On what?"

"On who you're asking." Damn Bruce for his enigmatic responses.

"You. I'm asking you." Clark emphasized despite his puzzlement.

"A hallucination?" Bruce thrown it like an accusation at Clark's face. Then his expression softened by a fraction. "Or a person?"

"We've been through this last night." Clark sat up against the headboard and hugged his knees. He inched just a tiny distance away from his illusionary interrogator. He summoned a smile, but it was a weak, wry stretch of his facial muscles. "What am I saying?" He muttered to himself. "We'd probably go through this again and again. You don't even know last night happened."

Bruce snorted. "I have memories. I think we need to establish that I am also fully capable of independent thinking."

"I don't…" Clark shut his eyes, feeling incredibly weary. Not even the morning sunlight could recover his strength.

"You don't believe me." Bruce finished for him. "I know. But I am not a hallucination."

"Are you going to repeat that every morning?" Clark snapped, his glare now sharp. He was bracing himself, anticipating the hurt. "Is that your idea of torture?"

"Until you believe me. Besides, who knows how long I'll be here?" Bruce said nonchalantly. He sat down on Clark's bed. Clark tried not to think about the sinking of the mattress that looked and felt so real to his senses. That proved nothing. Bruce continued wryly, "I can prove it. Would you like me to?"

The despondent inner voice that had become his decision maker spoke sourly into his mind. _He can't prove it. He can't. He can only lie for so long._ But the fresh optimistic part of him that he had suppressed for as long as he remembered rose to the challenge. _But what if he can?_ Clark's heart hammered in his chest. "How?"

Bruce turned to regard him with the same calculating, penetrating eyes. "How is your x-ray vision?"

"It's recovered." Clark answered hopefully. "Until my next Kryptonite exposure."

Whatever Bruce thought of that statement, his eyes betrayed no emotion. "Can you still see from one end of the universe to the other?"

Clark shrugged. "From end to end within the solar system, I can." He felt slightly relieved. His vision had deteriorated slightly with age, despite his more or less unchanged appearance. His first and only sign of mortality in his near-immortal life.

"Good." Bruce watched him sternly. "I'm going to tell you something you have no way of knowing. It's happening real time, so it's not a past event that your brain can have researched or known by accident. Neither you, your subconsciousness, nor your hallucination has known this. If your vision proves me correct, I am an entity of independent thinking."

Clark nodded numbly. He grasped the unspoken faster than he consciously wanted to. _But it doesn't prove you're flesh and blood._ It suddenly occurred to Clark that maybe this Bruce did not know either, whether he was a walking corpse, a humanized robot, or just a damn pretty holographic projection. He only insisted that he had memories and a working mind. And, as he had repeatedly established, that he was not a hallucination.

Bruce caught his attention with another steely gaze. "Focus your attention on MedStar Washington Hospital Center." He instructed. "Steve Trevor has just woken up from his bed and Diana Prince is standing on his bed side."

Clark tapped into his super senses, reawakening the muscles that he had abandoned for months. D.C. was a swarm of colorful visions and noises. He trained his eyes onto MedStar, scanning the floors for a familiar mass of curly dark hair. Room 406… 407… 408. Diana. Steve was sitting on the bed, his face gaunt with sickness, but his eyes were glinting of content.

Bruce threw him an object. It was a crudely made comm link. "Call her," he instructed. "Keep your eyes on her."

Shakily Clark activated the private line and dialed Diana's code. He watched obediently as Diana raised her hand to her ear. Her expression was equally suspicious and hopeful.

"Superman to Wonder Woman." Clark spoke with such unfamiliarity. He had forgotten his own voice as a superhero and a commander.

"Kal." Her slightly agape expression matched perfectly with her voice. She pushed her earpiece further inwards, as though she could not get enough of his voice. "Superman."

"Ask her if she has seen Bruce Wayne." Bruce stated clearly.

Clark swallowed. "Diana. I need to ask you something... something very important."

"He is real." Diana paused and turned. She was looking straight towards Kansas, at Clark, behind millions of solid walls. "Bruce… I saw him too. I talked to him. He is not a figment of your imagination."

Clark stole a glance at Bruce. He wore an expression that said _I told you so_. "Thank you, Diana. Please give Steve my kindest regards."

"I will, Kal. Take care."

Clark unclasped the comm link and held it out with an outstretched arm. Yet when Bruce leaned in to retrieve it, Clark gripped his forearm and pulled him close.

"I didn't lie." Bruce said blandly. He watched the mixed emotion pass in Clark's eyes. Confusion at his sudden arrival. Fright at the possibility that he might disappear. Disbelief that he existed before his very eyes. Above all, the wonderful, rapturous delight that overwhelmed all his negativity.

"You didn't." He echoed softly. "Let me touch you." He didn't wait for an answer. His hand traced Bruce's face from his defined cheekbone to his chin. His touch was endearing and careful. He relished the texture of flesh, the warmth of his skin. "You feel so warm. So alive."

Bruce struggled to stay put. It was surprisingly awkward, sharing such an intimate moment with Clark. He reached up and held Clark's hand, felt his fingers shaking, and gently set it down on Clark's lap.

"I last remember being in a fight with Bane." Bruce explained, remembering his conversation with Diana. This was something that he would find handy to recite to everyone he met. "I fell unconscious in an underground tunnel. Then I ended up out there, in the fields."

Clark didn't seem to follow his explanation. He was merely captured in his own prayers, muttering "thank Rao for his generosity" in Kryptonian.

"Do you remember that event?" Bruce tried again. It was an ill-masked attempt to remind Clark that they had a different history. Clark might remember them as a couple, but Bruce... To him, Clark was a good friend. A very good friend. But their relationship was still platonic.

Clark looked dazed for a moment, then he seemed to be replaying the conversation in slow motion. "Yes." He said, a mix of anger and pain filling his voice. "You didn't wake for six months."

Bruce ignored the raw hatred that had seeped into Clark's voice. "I need to get back to that time." He said sternly. "I don't belong here."

The pain that contorted Clark's face was instant. "But you've just come back."

"I didn't 'come back', Clark." Bruce explained patiently. He hated hurting Clark, but it was a necessary explanation. The more false hope he gave Clark, the more he would hurt him in the end. "I belong in the past. I must return to it."

"Stay." Clark's eyes were doing the begging that his voice refrained from. He hardly noticed the grip he had on Bruce's wrist, but he felt Bruce's pulse responding to his fear. "Please."

Bruce pulled away, masking his discomfort. "If I stayed, who would return to the hospital bed thirty years ago?" He muttered. "If I did not return, your past would disintegrate. Your memories of us, thirty years of it, would be wiped clean."

 _Liar._ Voices chanted in his mind, repeating the accusation. _Liar. Liar._

Clark's shoulders slumped. He seemed reluctant, but ultimately, convinced. "What do you have to do to return?"

"I don't know, yet." Bruce admitted. "But if I want to find answers, my leads will be in the Batcave."

The unvoiced question was evident from Clark's expression.

"Batman owns the largest collection of time travel theories." Bruce explained. _And the most information on how to wake from a post-battle coma._

Clark nodded. "I'll take you to Gotham," he said. But his expression was sorrowful, and seemed to be saying much more. _If you're going to leave so soon, I would rather you have pretended to be a hallucination._

Bruce ignored the undercurrent of grief and denial. "Swing me by the GCPD. Someone holds the key to the Batcave. I wouldn't want to trigger all the security systems installed by the older me."

Clark climbed out of bed reluctantly as Bruce headed for the door.

"One more thing," Bruce turned back at him. There was a smirk playing at his lips that was heartbreakingly reminiscent of the man in Clark's memories. "I know you own a Kryptonite-laced razor. Go shave."

The door closed behind him, leaving Clark rubbing his chin dumbly in his bedroom.


	5. The Invitation

"You've got a visitor, Commish."

"Yeah. One moment. Where did that form go… ah fuck it."

"Language."

"Didn't I say one moment? Frigging-" The man froze mid-motion. His hand was still gripping a sheet of paper that he didn't remember being so important. Then he looked up slowly and his eyes widened.

His visitor had the decency to sit down on his guest chair. He waved in a casual manner. It encompassed the carelessness of a billionaire playboy and the grimness of a masked vigilante. "Afternoon, Commissioner Grayson."

"Holy shit."

"Let no one say I paid for your education."

"Holy shit!" Dick scrambled from his seat and almost fell off his chair. He managed to draw his eyes away from Bruce to the door. "You just walked in in a suit and tie?"

"I wouldn't imagine the younger generation of GCPD officers to be too familiar with Gotham's high society from three decades ago."

"The day Bruce Wayne doesn't think his identity is just the most important secret to guard. I'll be damned." He was still staring in disbelief. "So what prompted you to rise from the dead? And what's the whole…" Dick gestured to his face. "If it's plastic surgery, please send me the name of your doctor."

"You look healthy yourself."

"You bet, I look damn gorgeous. Babs can't get her hands off of me." Dick's eyes narrowed. "First thing, I'm going to suspect magic. Second, time travel, just cause that face can't be sculpted with a butter knife. Third, you didn't come here to say hello, did you?"

"No, but your groundless acceptance is disconcerting." Bruce observed. "You look surprised, not suspicious. Who do I have to thank?"

"Wonder Woman called. Said I should be expecting a surprise these few days. I think she said it to make sure I don't get a heart attack. Let's be honest, I would never have thought it. How's Clark?"

"Adjusting."

"Is this a temporary thing?" Dick's face was suddenly hopeful. _Please say no._

"I don't know." Bruce replied earnestly. "I can't bring myself to wish either yes or no. I have a life to return to."

"So it is time travel." Dick groaned.

"Perhaps."

"So is Clark, you know, fucking your brains out or..." Dick made another vague gesture. "Not that it's easy to phrase _that_ when you're technically..."

"The general rule is if a question is too uncomfortable for you to ask, it would be too uncomfortable for someone to answer."

"Just... you look thirtyish." Dick grinned. "And everyone knows Clark got on one knee at around that time. Cause you were about as hot as hot can be at thirty, and this is coming from me, so you know..." He trailed off and shrugged.

"I have no recollection of his proposal." Bruce answered dismissively. He folded his hands around his knee and leaned forward. "Would you like to come back to the Manor tonight?"

"Family dinner?"

"I need you to contact a few people."

Dick gulped nervously. "Um, you should know, about Alfred…"

Bruce's expression immediately hardened, his knuckles turning white from clenching his fists.

Dick took one glance at Bruce's face and immediately knew he reached the wrong conclusion. "Oh heck no, he's not dead, Bruce." He dragged a hand down his face and almost chuckled in relief. "I just meant to say he tripped on his way to the washroom past midnight so he's now in a wheelchair. It's not even permanent. He just can't cook for a while because he can't reach the stove."

The relief on Bruce's face was immediate. "Jesus. I'm cutting your inheritance by half."

"My mistake. Babs takes care of him now. I go back once in a while, clean the Manor and do all that stuff Tim doesn't do. So, who am I supposed to invite? The whole Bat Family?"

"Just Jason, Tim, Damian, Cassandra, Stephanie, and Barbara."

Dick groaned. "You must be kidding me. Why can't you do it?"

"I learned that I have the ability to give people heart attacks."

"Great, and me telling someone Bruce dug his way up from his coffin is so much less freaky."

"You're credible."

"Why, thanks. I don't tell lies so often, how about that?"

"Call them and show up yourself. I'll cook."

"Would that even be edible?" Bruce's icy glare was no warmer than in his memories. "Okay. I'll book a few rooms at Gotham General Hospital to be safe."

"Also," Bruce glanced at the closed door. "I need access to the cave."

"Just drive in, I didn't change anything." Dick cocked his head to the side in contemplation. "Except the speakers. They're lousy compared to your NASA grade equipment."

"I have never been more worried for security."

"That literally just means I didn't deactivate your info on the electrochemical DNA sensors." Dick rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."

Bruce walked towards the door. "Your form." He gestured at the large cabinet on one side of Dick's office. "It's under there."

"Oh, thanks. There you are. How did you even get there?" Dick fished it out with a swipe. He heard the telltale swing of the door behind him. "Hey, it's good to see you."

A familiar grunt of acknowledgement reached him before the door clicked shut.


	6. The Discovery

"Have you found what you're looking for?" Clark asked. He had shaved his face, gelled his hair, and donned his flashy red and blue uniform. He was looking exactly like Superman from Bruce's time.

"I just got here five minutes ago." Bruce grumbled. He pressed the power buttons on all his computers. A rumble of electronic noises reverberated across the Batcave.

Evidently, Kryptonians experienced five minutes very differently than humans. Clark drifted up along Bruce's shelves and scanned the titles. "Where is the section on time travel?"

The lack of response from Bruce was somewhat disconcerting. Superman frowned. "Bruce?"

"It didn't exist."

Clark turned to look at Bruce in puzzlement. "But you said…" _Batman owns the largest collection of time travel theories._

"I lied." Bruce was still watching his screens come to life. Most displayed interfaces that he had never seen before. Technology advancement in thirty years was staggering.

Clark lowered himself to the ground. There was an ecstatic lilt to his voice when he spoke. "So does that mean…" _That you cannot go back?_ He immediately berated himself for the hope that was growing exponentially at the back of his mind. The hope selfishly founded on the impossibility of time travel, rather than Bruce's willing choice to leave or stay.

Bruce turned to regard him with an expressionless face. "No. I said 'did not exist'. In my time, time travel was not a priority. It was an interest, a hobby. I cannot say the same for my older self."

Clark's smile cracked at the discovery. "I see." He muttered, glancing at the shelves that stretched across the Batcave. "I'll start searching."

Bruce spent the next hour going through the documents on his computer. There was a huge, frequently updated database on Kryptonite-induced cancer. Yet it was immediately clear to Bruce that despite the massive database, there was still not enough information. Because everything the older Bruce gathered was theoretical. There were no historical precedents of the disease. He needed information from a dead body.

Bruce almost jumped when a finger tapped his shoulder.

"Sorry to startle you." Clark grinned sheepishly. "I found something that might interest you."

They traveled to a new section of the Batcave. It had been expanded by almost two-thirds of the original, its walls all lined with containers. Clark stopped at one of the dusty shelves and pulled out a cardboard box.

"Blueprints." He explained. It was filled to the brim with rolls of schematics.

Bruce unrolled one and read a drawing with furrowed brows. "Construction drawings. Detailed to the product name, dimensions, and protective coatings. This is something ready to be built." He glanced at the title block. It was empty. No title, name, or date.

"Or it has already been built." Clark was looking at the wall that was behind the box. He activated his x-ray vision to find that it was not lead-lined. His Bruce was not deliberately trying to hide the contents from Superman when he built it. Clark turned to Bruce for permission.

Bruce nodded. "Burn it."

Clark traced the wall with heat vision, carving out a large hole. The painted concrete crumbled and fell to the ground. Inside was a tunnel.

"I'll go check." Clark volunteered. He crawled into the hole before Bruce could protest. The tunnel was dark, but short. It led up to a larger hole, where he found a heap of used metal. He carried the mountain of leftovers out to the cave.

"Don't know what this is, but it's all that's left in there." Clark dumped them onto the ground.

Bruce picked at the smaller pieces. "You're right." He frowned, clamping the schematics with his feet across the floor to keep it from rolling up. "The machine corresponds to the drawings. But for whatever reason, it has been destroyed."

"Deliberately?" Clark asked worriedly. He eyed one version of the Batsuit hanging in a glass container nearby. He was suddenly reminded of the older Bruce. Bruce whose mysterious beauty was defined by all that he chose to reveal and not reveal. _What secrets have you been hiding from me?_

"No." Bruce inspected the uniform scorch marks on a larger piece of metal. "Overheating. The energy flow was too great. As great as time travel."

"You used it." Clark blurted out. At Bruce's stare, he scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. " _He_ built the machine to travel back in time, then it overheated and exploded."

Bruce nodded slowly. "We won't know whether his travel was successful. But the end result is the same." He skimmed through a few more schematics, then he glanced at his watch.

"We should go back upstairs."

"Okay," Clark eyed the box he was carrying. "Do you want me to...?"

"Yes, put it on my desk."

"All right."

"Wash your hands. We're going to cook up a storm."

Clark lowered the schematics on the table and blinked. "You're expecting guests?"

"A dozen of them." Bruce replied. "Worst case scenario, we'll order takeout. No one has to know."

He turned away with a mischievous wink, lending Clark the same momentary illusion that his world was as complete as it was years before.


	7. The Truth

The family dinner, as Bruce phrased it, managed to go well without heart attacks or gross sobbing. Dick must have been very thorough on the phone.

Alfred took the news in in his ever nonchalant manner. His shaking hands, however, betrayed him as he passed out the utensils in a wheelchair. Damian, as a grown man, came the closest to expressing emotions without throwing a fit than he ever did. Jason grunted his acknowledgement at Bruce being alive. Tim raised his glass and gave a small smile at both Bruce and Clark. Stephanie was talking nonstop and Cassandra listened with occasional interjections. Barbara was the most ecstatic, telling Bruce all about Dick's ridiculous GCPD adventures.

It was a big table. Conversations thrown around were subtly centered around the years Bruce missed out on but would not ask about. The relationships. The marriages. The families. The adventures. The only strategic pieces left out were the accidents, the illnesses, and the deaths.

Bruce was not particularly talkative, but everyone knew he was paying attention. He appeared quite comfortable among people who were thirty years older than he remembered them. Clark answered most of the questions that were thrown his way.

Most of the food was obviously speed delivered from the city. No one questioned their origins. If Dick was about to comment on their legitimacy, Bruce's glare was enough to shut him up.

By the same token, no one mentioned the pumpkin soup at the center of the table. Alfred had cast one knowing look at the chefs when Bruce placed the steaming pot on the table. No one, save Clark, drank from the mysterious mixture. The stark orange color was not exactly natural.

Clark forced himself to swallow a mouthful and suppressed his grimace. It _burned_.

Dick was watching him all along, ready to splutter. He caught Clark's silent _help me_ expression and burst out laughing. "Oh my god. There is no way that is pumpkin."

"Don't drink it." Bruce glared at Clark, who was gingerly wiping at his mouth with a napkin.

"It's memorable." Clark protested. Cooking with Bruce was no easy matter. It involved a great many arguments over cooking instructions and preferences. Much like their teamwork on the battlefield.

"Your diarrhea is gonna be memorable." Dick snickered again.

"I don't know what we did wrong." Clark murmured, twirling his spoon in his bowl. "We followed the recipe."

"We didn't." Bruce groaned into his pasta. He refused to register the artificial color of the soup.

"We did." Clark pointed out stubbornly. Then he shrugged. "Until like, one-third of the way."

Dick stood up to get a better look at the substance with all the odd potato-like matters swimming within. _God it was bad._ "I can't even-"

Bruce chose the same moment to stand up, both palms still planted on the table. Everyone paused to look at them both. Then Bruce wiped a napkin over his mouth and discarded it onto the table. "Excuse me." He pulled away and walked out the room, both doors still swinging in his wake.

Dick looked around in confusion and slowly sank back down into his chair.

From the other end of the table, Jason sneered. "Boy, did you make the boss mad."

Damian stare was steely. "You destroyed Father's confidence and ruined his pride."

"May I remind you, Master Damian, that you cursed and hit your knee against the table when Master Bruce put that pot in front of you?"

"It was a natural reaction." Damian glared at Alfred immediately. "I meant no disrespect, Pennyworth. Unlike him."

Clark sent Dick a comforting look. "I'll go see what he's up to." He followed Bruce in the direction of the Batcave.

* * *

Clark found Bruce bent over his desk, frantically going over the schematics. He unrolled whichever drawing on hand, skimmed through it, and moved on to the next.

"It's not right." He kept muttering under his breath. "It doesn't match up."

"What doesn't match up?" Clark asked in confusion.

"The machine and the blueprints." Bruce pointed at the drawing. "This specifies cemented tungsten carbide." He held up a piece of scorched metal. "Look at this. This is just alpha-beta alloy. Titanium. Application at max four hundred degrees Celsius. This isn't meant to withstand the amount of heat generated during time travel."

"But that detail," Clark pointed at one of the drawings and picked out a component from the heap. "It looks almost identical." He picked out another. "They all look identical, except the smaller pieces."

"Yes." Bruce muttered distractedly. "Someone built the base, stopped one-third of the way, and reconstructed it into a simpler version of the machine."

"He ran out of time." Clark said softly. He held up the piece of metal, his eyes seemingly looking far beyond the object in his hand. "The diagnosis. He found out he had cancer."

"But if he didn't follow the drawings..." Bruce thought of the large hole on the wall, where Clark had burned through to get to the metal scraps. "Why did he leave the drawings for you to find?"

Clark looked up, dumbfounded. "For me?"

"Yes, he wouldn't have known I travelled here." Bruce fell into his chair, rubbing his temples. He was staring emptily at the remains of the older Bruce's machine when something clicked in his mind. "Unless he _did_."

"Unless he did what?" Clark asked in confusion.

Bruce started pacing in front of the table. "Think about it. What do I have that my older self does not?"

"Time?" Clark offered hesitantly.

"Thirty years." Bruce acknowledged. "And an autopsy report."

"An autopsy report." Clark repeated. "What?"

"I can inspect my own corpse. Take dead cells from my body to find out how the cancer originated. This is what was missing in his research. I would have thirty years to find a cure." Bruce spoke with his usual clinical detachment. "This is why he sent me here."

"Wait. Who sent you here?"

"I sent myself." Bruce flicked on his screens. Quickly he scrolled through the huge amounts of data on Kryptonite-induced cancer. "This is why all this information remains in the database. For me to find."

"Then this machine…" Clark trailed off. The metal in his hand fell to the ground with a loud clank.

"This isn't the machine he meant to build. Knowing me, I would have wanted to travel back in time and do everything myself." Bruce deduced. Ironically, he knew his older self wouldn't even trust his younger self. "But I didn't have time to finish the machine, and soon I was losing physical strength. So I built a variation of the machine."

"A remote time machine." Clark uttered, astonished at the conclusion he had reached. "He chose a period that you were unconscious and instead brought you into the future."

"Exactly. Now all I have to do is reconstruct a time travel machine according to these blueprints, and return with all the information I have on the cancer that took my life." Bruce looked up and saw that Clark was gazing at him strangely. "What?"

Clark shook his head. He choked out a dry laugh. "You're crazy. You're just plain, out-of-this-world insane. I love you."

Bruce's heart did a leap at his confession. He tried to think how much of that confession Clark had meant in all seriousness. How much of that was just a momentary outburst. How much of that was meant for the older, wiser, experienced him. Or, he tried _not_ to think about all those things.

Clark was oblivious to Bruce's inner turmoil. He bowed down to pick up the metal he had dropped. He inspected it endearingly, as if it was his only reminder of the stubborn man that refused to accept his mortality like every other human.

"Why didn't you just type up a manual and save it on your desktop?" Clark chuckled wryly. "Son of a bitch. You- He had me choking out sobs during his funeral. I wept till my eyes were dry. Pounded on the earth, just to release some of that crushing pressure that was squeezing my chest. He must have been laughing at me the entire time, thinking what pranks he could set up when he rose from the dead."

Bruce looked away. He was reading the texts on his screen. Reading between the lines, into the deliberate emotional detachment of the author. The scientific guise. The dejected undertone. It was the words of a man who was certain of his fate. Who felt hopeless to change it.

"Maybe he wasn't as hopeful as you think." He said quietly.

Clark's hand froze from touching the metal. He forced out a laugh. "Of course he was. He knew he'd beat the cards fate dealt him this whole time." He glanced nervously at Bruce, who quickly minimized the texts on his screen.

"There was a good chance that he didn't know whether his invention was successful. If he was arranging for me to carry out an autopsy, he would have wanted me to arrive as early as possible. My guess is that the remote time machine never stopped computing, until six months after his death. The moment it finished computing, it duplicated my mind and body from the past and inserted me here."

"So he didn't know…" Clark's throat went dry. _Bruce standing in front of his machine, watching the pointer rotate, his heart sinking. Bruce spending his last moments on his death bed, thinking how he had failed. God forbid._

"But he had hoped." Bruce reminded him grimly. "He worked hard for it. And, ultimately, he had succeeded."

Clark was no longer watching him. His eyes had caught the databases of information that he had not been privy to. _Bruce's writing. Bruce's words. Bruce's work. Bruce's attempts at survival, trying and failing, failing and trying..._

Bruce glanced back at the top of the stairs and suppressed a sigh. He supposed he would tell his guests that Superman had run off to save the world again.


	8. The Bond

"Hey."

Clark looked up to see Bruce standing in the doorway of his guest room. He was leaning on the jamb, his arms crossed. Then his arms moved in a blur. Instinctively Clark raised his hand to catch a small white container thrown at his face. It was fast enough to break a human nose.

"Nice reflexes." Bruce smirked. "You don't want to lose that."

"You almost killed me." Clark rotated the container in his hand. There was no label.

"Do I try." Bruce made a show of massaging his right shoulder, as if the throw had hurt his arm. "Leslie delivered this. Three tablets per day, zero Kryptonite exposure. Depression's a bitch, but we'll work through it."

Clark felt his throat constrict. "I haven't-" He began, stammering nervously. "I haven't felt this way in a long time."

Bruce nodded, soundlessly acknowledging his pained confession. Then he walked past Clark and picked up his pillow.

"Oh, that one's fine for me. You don't have to-"

Bruce gave him a look that said _are you stupid?_ and Clark felt his cheeks burn.

"Follow me."

* * *

Bruce's bedroom was as it always was, exceptionally grand, but exceptionally dark. He strolled inside and dumped Clark's pillow next to his own. Then he flipped the covers down and climbed onto his space. When Clark remained standing, Bruce cocked an eyebrow at him with mild annoyance.

"Get in."

Clark wrung his hands with unease. "If this is an attempt at curing my illness…"

Bruce gave him a glare so piercing that Clark almost bit on his tongue. "If a night of sex can cure depression, Leslie would be out of a job right now."

He eyed Clark's crotch and shrugged carelessly. "If you can't get it up, we'll just sleep. I don't mind."

"I've lost interest in a lot of things, Bruce." Clark muttered defensively. "But sex is not one of them." Still he remained standing, his hands clenched on both sides.

Bruce propped himself up on his elbows and studied his stance. "What's bothering you?"

"Your last memory was thirty years ago." Clark tried to explain.

"I've established that at least thirty times today." Bruce answered dryly. "Besides, you make it sound like amnesia."

"I just need to make sure we're on the same page..." Clark tried to look at anything but Bruce's body, despite the covers wrapped around him from the waist down. "If my memory serves me right, back then we were… friends?" He finished uncertainly.

"We were." Bruce agreed curtly. "And now I want us to become something more. You have a problem?"

"No," Clark's quick reply was telltale enough. He pressed on anyway, "Are you sure?"

Bruce exhaled in exasperation. "Kent. You either get in or get out. And close the door behind you." He pulled the covers up and buried himself within, turning towards the windows. He willed his heart not to pound as fast as it did.

Belatedly he heard the bedpost creak with an additional weight. Strong arms flipped him onto his back. Bruce almost cursed under his breath when Clark's body pressed up against him. His erection was pushing against his toned stomach.

Clark leaned in and murmured into his neck. His warm breath sent tingling sensations down Bruce's spine. "When people are shy, they act like they're shy. Not mad enough to slit someone's throat."

"I'm not shy." Bruce snapped. Even against the covers he could feel the hardness of Clark's cock. This was new. Everything, from Clark's surprisingly forward attitude to his anticipation for sex, was new. New, but not unwelcome. He watched as Clark flipped the covers down and joined him under the sheets. And since when had Clark removed his clothes? Super speed be damned.

"May I?" Clark tugged at Bruce's silk pajamas.

"Like I'm going to say 'no' at this point."

Bruce was rewarded with hungry lips capturing his own. Then it was a blur of movements, a sweet blend of tastes on his tongue catching him off guard. He battled with all his might at the intruder that was determinedly tasting every corner of his mouth. Hands roamed across his chest, a finger flicked against a sensitive nipple. When he managed to wrench his mouth free from asphyxiation, his clothes were already off. Whether they were still in one piece was beyond his knowledge.

Clark's eyes were screaming words so pronounced that even if the detective in him was poisoned to death, he would have easily guessed the meaning. _Stay. Please. Please, Bruce, stay. Stay with me._

Then Clark's mouth was on his neck, sucking on his skin hard enough to leave a purple mark. His lingering kisses went down along his shoulder blade, kissing and sucking and biting. Leaving marks wherever he can, whenever he can.

On every patch of scarred skin, he left a mark that claimed _mine_. On his chest. _Mine_. Sucking on his nipple hard enough to garner a long, tortured moan from Bruce. _Mine_. Clark trailed down his abdomen, his hand cupping his balls, massaging them gently. His finger trailed from bottom to top, teasing Bruce by applying pressure on his shaft. Precum dripped onto Bruce's stomach. Clark licked the wet juices off his skin. _Mine_.

Bruce tried to push away the raw possessiveness in Clark's actions. The sweet promises that was dripping off Clark's every kiss. _If you stay, I'll hand you the world on a silver platter. I won't even think twice. I'll give you everything you want, and I'll be everything you want me to be._ He arched into Clark's firm grip around his cock, relishing the strong confident stroke that felt just right. It almost angered him that he was so inexperienced in having sex with a man, but Clark the Boy Scout knew _exactly_ what he was doing. How to pleasure him, make him squirm, and make him whimper with need.

There came a strange emptiness within him that yearned to be filled. Bruce arched his hips and presented, in all his sex-ridden subtlety, what he wanted. How he wanted it. Strong, rough, and urgent. His eyes registered a blur of movement that took a fraction of a second. Then Clark was back, rubbing cold lube onto his tight, puckered hole. The bastard even knew where Bruce kept his lube.

Bruce felt a finger push against him, into him. Then he was rocking with the movement of Clark's hand, clenching around him tightly. A muffled cry escaped his mouth. It should have been embarrassing to say the least. The short wanton noises that he was making as Clark's finger pumped his ass... He didn't want to sound desperate, but he was too engrossed in the sensations that followed. Embarrassment was the last thing on his mind. He felt Clark's second finger enter him. Clark stretched his hole and played against his tight muscles. Teased him with his fingers, filling him with want.

"Relax, relax." Clark whispered, slowing his movements.

Bruce's entire upper back was pushing against the timber headboard. A sheen of sweat coated his body. He was panting heavily, more than he would sparring with any superhero. "Fuck me." He looked Clark in the eye and demanded. He was not going to beg, not even with the hot wet readiness in his ass.

Clark withdrew his fingers and dragged Bruce back onto his pillow. "I don't want to hurt you."

 _I'll damn you to hell if you stop now._ Bruce thought with cutting menace. God his hole was dripping with need, wanting to be filled. If only Clark could just thrust his big juicy cock into his ass and pump him-

Clark entered him in one swift motion and that was the epitome of pain and pleasure coming together. It forced Bruce to let go of all his rationality, to let loose the growl of Clark's name he was withholding. He buckled under the pressure, shifting against the one thing that was hard against his back. Clark's hands were steady on his hips. "Stay put. You'll hurt yourself." Super strength was another virtue in sex, as Bruce found out.

The squelching sounds of Clark's hips pumping against his were hot enough to drive Bruce over the edge. If only Clark would release that killer grip on his cock. The thrusts felt never ending. Repeatedly he was pushed so close to the edge he felt he was about to fall. Then Clark's hand would bring him the briefest moment of sanity, before letting him drive off a cliff again. Bruce struggled to grasp the white-hot ecstasy that was slipping between his fingers every time he came close to coming. Clark's cock was hitting his prostate with practiced precision, blinding him with the strongest pleasure he had come to know. There was wetness forming in his eyes, wetness from denied completion. He didn't know when the lasting sweetness had turned into unceasing torture.

 _Please, please._ Bruce was begging with the uncontrollable tremor of his limbs. Begging Clark to grant him release. For a moment he almost heard the cold, threatening undertone that was in Clark's breaths. The voice that said _stay_. _Stay, and I'll let you have what you want. All I want is a promise._

Then Clark loosened his grip, and Bruce came, shooting all his cum onto his stomach. Clark's hand eased him through the last few drops. Then Clark bit into his shoulder, deep enough to draw blood. He released his load into Bruce's ass, filling all his wet hot tightness with his juices.

When Clark pulled out, limp and spent, Bruce had already lapsed into exhaustion. His expression was still drawn between surprise and pleasure, but his eyes were shut. It was an oddly animated sight.

Clark suppressed his contented grin and sneaked back under the covers, pulling the sheets up to keep them warm. Bruce snuggled towards him. His breathing never quickened as he did.

For a long while, Clark just watched the face of his beloved in the moonlight. He marveled at the sheer beauty of Bruce, living and by his side. Then he curled his arms around Bruce's slighter form, and shut his eyes. He had almost forgotten the feeling of being whole.


	9. The Nightmare

_Bruce's voice. Shaking. Weak. Hoarse._

 _Silence._

 _Bruce's face. Worn. Exhausted. Pained._

 _Darkness._

 _Bruce's touch. Wrinkled skin. Loosened grip. Cold. Shivering._

 _Gone._

 _Clark closed his fist and felt the odd texture of falling strands. A handful of whitening strands fell between his fingers. They piled at his feet, drowning him in quick, suffocating agony. Bruce's hair._

 _Wetness formed on his forehead, dripping down his chin. Red amplifying its presence against the contrasting whiteness of his shirt. A waterfall of crimson. Bruce's blood._

 _Screams of torture. Echoes of panting. Begging, ringing against his ear drums. Bruce, waiting for his aid, losing hope with every passing minute._

 _Clark failed him. Over and over again._

 _Clark._

 _Clark, wake up._

"Clark. Clark!"

Familiar blue eyes were staring at him with masked concern. Clark bolted from the bed and heard the bed creak dangerously with his sudden movement.

"Easy. You'll break the bed."

"How-" Clark wiped his hand across his forehead. It was damp with sweat. "How long have you been-?"

"Not long." Bruce admitted. He propped a pillow up against the headboard and settled in comfortably. "You were having a nightmare."

Clark surveyed the room. It was still dark. "What time is it?"

"Three twenty."

Clark rested his head back against the pillow wearily. "Sorry. I should have slept elsewhere. It… happens." _Frequently. Recurrently._

Bruce appeared hesitant for a moment. "Do you… want to talk about it?" He shrugged at Clark's questioning gaze. "I happen to have a lot of experience. Dealing with nightmares, that is. All the boys have had them at some point. Screaming in the middle of the night was a common occurrence."

"They're lucky to have you."

"You can confide in me, if you want." Bruce was studying his hands with odd interest.

It suddenly occurred to Clark that Bruce was nervous. That to Bruce, the intimacy of sharing a private conversation was even more so than sharing body heat and fluids. He didn't want to reject Bruce's offer. It was an opportunity to show his trust.

"I dream about you. A lot." Clark began. He watched Bruce's astonishment in the tiny flinch of his finger. That was all the reaction he was going to get. He continued, "I remember your last days. My mind replays them when I sleep. I remember feeling responsible. Helpless. Being the most powerful man on Earth, but seeing the futility of all my strength and will. I see the hair that falls out of your scalp, the blood that you cough onto a white sheet. It always feels like I'm strangled in my sleep."

Bruce was watching him oddly now. For a long time he refused to comment on Clark's confession. Almost until Clark thought he was never going to get his response. Then quietly Bruce uttered, "I would never forgive you."

Clark felt the sharp sting of a deep, open wound inflicted on his battered body. He choked back the emotions welling in his throat. "I know."

"You don't." Bruce snapped stubbornly. "If all my life serves is to make you miserable after my death, then I would never forgive you. I would never forgive myself."

Clark replied with stunned silence. For a moment he was unable to respond, then slowly he looked away from Bruce's frustrated stare. "You wouldn't say that… When you go through that mind-wrecking torture, you… I wouldn't be surprised at all if you blamed me. Blamed the Kryptonian that barged onto your planet and the Kryptonite that came with him. Blamed the source of your sickness that eventually led to your last breath. I wouldn't."

"Clark." Bruce squared on him angrily, his jaw clenched. "Don't tell me what I know or not know about myself. I'm younger, doesn't mean I'm any less the man you knew." He retreated in frustration. "I don't like seeing you tortured over a memory of a dead man, regardless of who that is."

Clark rested his forehead on his palm and shook his head. "I know, Bruce. If the situation was reversed, I would have hated myself and the pain I inflicted on you."

Bruce turned abruptly, ready to pounce on that confession, but Clark beat him to it. "I'm learning." He said, avoiding Bruce's gaze. It was less a promise and more a defence. "I'm trying hard. At least I'm not giving up. Not anymore."

He shut his eyes for a while and heard the shuffling of their sheets, then warmth curled up near his waist and hips.

"Good." Bruce said simply.

Clark waited in the dark for any comment that followed, but the only sounds that came after a long while were Bruce's soft snores. The comforting breaths were accompanied by the gentle warmth radiating from his body. Bruce's warmth, urging Clark into deep, dreamless sleep.


	10. The Examination

"Do you really have to do this?" Clark's voice was thick with uncertainty. He was facing away, absently flicking buttons on Bruce's computer. The Batcave was swamped by the distinctive smell of rotten flesh.

"It's a dead body, Clark. Decaying flesh. Don't start forming emotional attachments with a slab of expired meat." Bruce whirled the table around in the Batcave and pulled out a set of surgical instruments. "And if you don't want to recycle your lunch, I suggest that you keep your eyes on the screen."

Bruce worked silently, occasionally noting a discovery that he wanted Clark to input into his computer. The generalizations were easier to manage. Bruce was inspecting first by observation, without cutting through skin and flesh. Clark tried his best to think of Alfred's sandwiches. Delicious club sandwiches. Chips on the side.

"Contact with Kryptonite works like radiation exposure." Bruce frowned, trying to discern clues from the unrecognizable mound of flesh. The low underground temperature and airtight coffin had slowed the decay tremendously. "Overexposure to Kryptonite stimulates a mutation akin to acute myeloid leukemia. Complete with petechiae on arms and legs."

Bruce looked up briefly. "Are you typing that down?"

Clark was hugging himself at the console, keeping his eyes resolutely on the keyboard. "Yeah." He reached out and did what he was told, despite the intense shaking of his fingers.

"Organ failure. Let's see where that begins."

Sounds of metal cutting flesh was quickly driving the sanity out of Clark's weakened mind. He numbly followed the systematic sounds of moving scissors. _Sandwiches. Chips. Sandwiches. Chips._

"You never told me what you do for a living now." Bruce spoke to him in the manner of an afternoon tea conversation.

Clark grasped at the question like a lifesaver amidst the disturbing background noises. "Gotham Gazette. I used to work there. Not since… six months ago. I couldn't." He breathed, wanting to sigh, then he vowed never to breathe again. The thick pungence attacked his nostrils like nothing else. "When I get better, I'll reapply."

"If you need a degree for a new civilian identity, I can buy that for you." Bruce offered. "I'd prefer Princeton, but if Kansas State is what you want…" He shrugged carelessly. "Any university, any degree."

"I'm good. I just need to work my way up." Clark managed a small smile. Hearing Bruce's voice in normal conversation was comforting. "I never thought I'd give up writing one day. It was my favorite pastime."

"I remember."

"Back then, I could never imagine leaving the Daily Planet..." Clark imagined the pen in his hand, compared to the electronic tablet that he now carried around. "But I had no choice. I was too young, among people who were growing old too fast. Lois was understanding when I left."

"Hm."

"Bruce."

"... Hm?"

"Do you think..." Clark willed himself to look in Bruce's direction. He ignored the unrecognizable mass of flesh on the table. Bruce's gloves were stained with color. "Do you think you'd be able to save yourself?"

Bruce looked up briefly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "That is a very odd way of phrasing your question."

"I mean…"

Bruce cut him off with a knowing glare. "Who knows? Thirty years might just be enough to invent a cure for Kryptonite-induced cancer."

"You know you can't change the past, right?" Clark said quietly. "No one can."

"I can change the future." Bruce glared back steadily. "Your past and present are my future."

"What you did in your future and my past are the same. You never found a cure. You tried."

"How encouraging."

"The universe self-corrects, Bruce. You will never find a cure. Or you will find a cure but not the necessary ingredients, or your drug will not work, period. The universe will do anything in its power to stop you from getting your way."

Bruce shrugged, dismissing the long-winded explanation that Clark had thrown his way. A part of him understood why Clark was so desperate. Clark was denying himself false hope. Willing away all the unlikely possibilities, to save himself the disappointment. Just so he wouldn't be lifted into the air only to crash back down again.

"Kansas State must have upped their quantum physics courses." Bruce commented offhandedly.

"I cover the science section of Gotham Gazette sometimes."

"You think I lied then."

Clark's head jerked up at the accusation. "About what?"

Bruce didn't spare him a glance. He was concentrating on separating the mingled rotten tissues. "When I first got here, I said I needed to get back so Bruce Wayne from thirty years ago would wake from his coma. You think that's a lie."

"I think…" Clark swallowed slowly. "That's not how the universe works. What happened has happened. In my memory, you woke. Whatever you do now, the universe will guide you to waking thirty years ago. The difference is, it's not that you need to go back… You _want_ to go back."

"I want to go back because I want to save my life." _Not because I don't want to spend time here, with you._

"I know." Clark nodded wearily in understanding. "I'm telling you you can't. You died in my past. In my arms." _So stay for as long as you can, with me. Don't waste away your hours finding a cure that will never succeed._

Bruce yanked something out of the corpse with more force than necessary. Something hardened over time tangled with something darkened with oxidation. Clark turned away gingerly. "I'll fight the universe." Bruce said nonchalantly.

"You can't just-" Clark stopped mid-sentence and sat down defeatedly on a bench.

"You don't know that."

"The universe-"

"What if this isn't about the universe?" Bruce countered defiantly. Clark looked up, confused. "What if this is no more than a premonition? A warning my brain has computed based on probabilities of the future during my coma? Then there is nothing stopping me from shaping the future. Because what I am seeing is what my brain predicts to be the future, and not the future itself."

 _Sure, that is a possibility. From Bruce's perspective, there is a fifty-fifty chance that is true. He has no way of knowing whether he is experiencing reality, or just a fancy, video-game-like coma._ Clark bit his lip nervously. For their encounter to be a dream, it was an optimistic outlook at their situation. A very improbable possibility. Clark had his own mind, his own history. He certainly didn't feel like he was an image existing in Bruce's subconsciousness. "But... what if this is coma-induced time travel?"

Time travel was what they had always agreed on, since discovering Bruce's machine and his blueprints. It was still the most logical explanation.

Bruce's hands stilled momentarily. He looked straight into Clark's eyes. "Then this is all the time we have, and I will never see you again."

"I… I don't understand."

"By law of Novikov's self-consistency theory, the universe self-corrects. I will never find a cure." Bruce explained irritably. "That is the pessimistic possibility that _you_ insist on. You believe in the _universe_."

"And I believe in the _multiverse_." Bruce continued. "If I find a cure, I'll spend my successful reality with a different Clark Kent. Even if I can't, I've tried, and that attempt is based on my knowledge from the future. Which means my perception of reality will branch off to an alternate universe. My failed reality will also be spent with another Clark Kent."

Something clicked in Clark's mind. Something that he understood, but was unwilling to acknowledge.

"Yes, Clark. I can still save myself. If I succeed, I have a new future waiting for me." Bruce's voice echoed in the Batcave, driving the answer deep into Clark's empty core. "But I can't save _you_. Whether I succeed or not, the Clark Kent waiting in my future will not be you. When I leave, you will never see me again."

For the longest silence, Clark felt time ticking past in the tormenting detail of a working clock. Then Bruce was done, pulling off his gloves and walking past him. On his desktop were labelled petri dishes and small glass containers, everything that he was going to study and overcome. His attire still smelled of rotten flesh. Reminding Clark of a certain death. A death he could never rewind.

"I'm Batman. I never claimed to be anyone's savior." Bruce discarded the gloves into the bin and walked away, leaving Clark alone in the vast space of the Batcave with his lifeless corpse.


	11. The Training

"Are you sure we're allowed up here?" Clark watched the window skeptically as they neared the Watchtower. Bruce docked the Javelin in the same efficient, accurate manner as Clark remembered.

"Batman authorized your return, Superman."

"Technically, you're not Batman."

"I built it, I own it. With his inheritance, Dick can build his own floating satellite." Bruce pulled on his cowl as he exited the Javelin. "Batman may not always be me, but I'll always be Batman."

A blur of red reached them before Superman even stepped onto Watchtower flooring.

"Bats! What's up? Sick gauntlets, what are these, like version two point oh?" Red clad hands pulled up Bruce's forearm for closer inspection. "Oh, Supes, you're back!"

Superman took one look at the situation and gave his best advice. "You would really want to stop gripping that hand."

Confused eyes stared back at him. "Huh?"

"Flash." Batman growled warningly.

"Ooh, that _voice_ , man." Wally pulled away sympathetically. _Best not catch whatever bacteria Batman had._ "Here, have a cough drop."

"He's, uh, not Dick." Clark pointed out helpfully.

"Oh." Wally squinted at Batman's exposed jaw. "Dami?"

"His dad." Clark managed to warn before Bruce pulled off his cowl.

Wally's face went on a color slideshow. He dropped Bruce's gauntlet like a hot potato. "Shit. I didn't sign up for this. I better get running. See ya, Supes and Daddy Bats!"

"Daddy Bats. What is he on?" Bruce replaced his cowl with a frown.

"You might want to know his heart rate was spiking at five hundred miles per hour." Clark sighed. "Batman Senior rising from six feet under. You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Batman shrugged. "If I travel back in time, I'm not allowed to change a thing. But if I travel into the future where I'm dead, I can do whatever the fuck I want."

"Like shocking Wally into a panic attack."

"Is that what you hear?"

"Close. He's clutching his chest in the cafeteria." Superman gave Batman a skeptical glance. "He thinks you're a vampire... _and_ he's found Diana. You just made her your unofficial walking information center."

"Come on." Batman removed his glove and pressed his hand against the handprint sensor. "Let's get this over with before someone dies of shock."

* * *

"Nostalgic, isn't it?" Batman locked the door to the Watchtower training room.

"You're not taking off your armor?" Superman asked skeptically.

"I'm not activating the red sun either."

"You should. I insist."

"No. The point of training is for you to regain control on your superpowers. I'm not here to teach you basic punches and kicks." Batman raised his fists and parted his legs to maintain his balance. "Come on."

"That armor can't protect you."

"It's kevlar."

"I have super strength. You activate the red sun, and I'll attack." Superman's frustration was surging. "I can't control my strength. I might hurt you."

"That's the idea." Batman lunged himself at the alien. His knee brushed past Superman's face, an inch from contact. Superman fell back immediately. He felt the stinging sensation of the sharp breeze on his nose. "Even Alfred can break your nose at a speed like that."

"Well what do you know, you got my attention." Superman shoved Batman back into the wall, crunching the metal behind.

"That's more like it. Use your heat vision."

"I can't-" He narrowly dodged the Batarang aimed at his face.

"Save yourself. I'm going full out."

The next Batarang didn't make it back to Batman's hand. Half of it melted into a puddle on the ground. Superman hadn't had the chance to look at it closely. Batman's kick reached his stomach the next second.

It hurt. "Kryptonite." He breathed out, trying to maintain his balance. It felt as if a footprint was etched onto his skin. It burned.

"A diluted solution, compounded with lead. It won't stop you from using your super powers, but you'll hurt from direct contact." Batman's boots flashed with a line of green. "You beat me now, or you cry later. My equipment only gets better."

Superman's punch was square on the cowl. Super strength broke off a fraction of the material. Bruce immediately blinked to avoid the shards of his lenses from entering his eyes. That moment of hesitation was enough for Superman to tackle Batman to the ground. The latter managed to slip out of his grip the moment his back hit the lightly cushioned floor. He bounced up with the ground as leverage, shoving Superman face first beneath him. Then Superman's elbow came at his face from an impossible angle. Batman flipped back, avoiding the direct hit at his jaw, but Superman's hand was steady on his ankle. He bit back the pain of super strength hitting his side.

"Careless." Superman managed to spit out, along with a mouthful of blood. The Kryptonite-laced equipment was strong and tailored to defeat him, it was... _the reason why Bruce would get cancer._

The next hit caught him unawares. Batman was back on his feet, teeth and fists clenched, his posture ready. Glowing in subtle green light, in the light that would eventually suck the life force out of him.

"Take it off." Clark muttered. He tried to crawl up, but Bruce's fist made contact with his jaw a second later. The hit forced his head back painfully. The ceiling lights swam chaotically in his vision. He wiped the blood off his face. Somehow Bruce had forced him to bite his tongue. Blood was seeping across his sensitive taste buds. _The familiar taste of blood. Like all the times he had kissed Bruce when he was weak and on the defining verge of a bottomless abyss, standing one step before the cliff._

"Make me." Batman growled. Clark saw the hit, even raised his hand to match the movement, but he was one second too slow. His nerves sent back a series of signals, mixed with pain and numbness and... _The weakening grip of Bruce's hand, the wound at the back of his skull. They haunt him. He saved Bruce, didn't he? The underground tunnel. Bane. Bruce is breathing, but barely. He isn't even conscious._

A flash of smoke. Batman's tactics. Clark swung his fists at the smoke, lunging himself into the spot where he thought Batman was one second ago.

"Too slow."

A blinding hit on his temple. Clark staggered back. He swept the room with heat vision. He could sense the black-clad figure crouching down to escape the blanket attack. Metal was melting. Hidden cabinets breaking off from the wall. His heat vision was strong enough to destroy the room if he wanted to. The smoke was still blinding him. He couldn't see past the clouds of gray matter.

"Still too slow." Batman growled.

 _Always one moment too slow._

Clark heard metallic objects being thrown at his feet. He leaped instinctively before the mini bombs were detonated. Bruce wasn't lying when he said he was going full out. Superman's flashy uniform made him a lamppost in the thick smoke. He could hardly see Bruce's dark armor.

 _Too slow. Bruce's hand fell to his side. Bruce's head lolled weakly against his shoulder. Clark flew him to the Batcave. Leslie was waiting. Alfred strapped him in. Then Clark was pacing, waiting for a horrible truth. Helpless. Too slow to save Bruce's life._

Batman was circling him in the smoke, Clark could sense it. Theatricality as a weapon was a horrifying thing. There was no way of telling when Batman would attack, which direction he would come from. Suddenly Batman's gauntlet was crossing his chest. Kryptonite-laced metal worked like poisoned fangs against his uniform. _Take it off. It's killing you and you don't even know it._

That urgency seemed to drive some sense into him, for he suddenly remembered the twenty times Bruce chided him to be too slow. That super speed he had wasn't for kicks and punches. It was for flying. Sweeping the grounds. Blanket attacks. This training room was smaller than Bruce's dining room. He didn't even have to use x-ray vision or heat vision to keep track of Bruce. He didn't need to play by Batman's games, playing cat and mouse in zero visibility. He could sweep the room like a super powered vacuum cleaner.

Following that clarity Superman lifted off from the ground. He started flying in circles, sweeping every corner of the room. He gained momentum. The centripetal force was quickly disturbing the smoke storm that Batman had created. The room was merging into a blur of white rendered walls, silver metal cabinets, blue safety cushions... And a passing black shadow trying its hardest to maintain its position. Bracing itself against the strong wind that forced to tear it down.

The next moment Bruce found himself on his back. Bewilderment hit him like a fast returning sandbag. Superman was straddling him, his weight heavy on Bruce's thighs.

"You won." Bruce said grudgingly, glaring at him through one white lens from the unbroken half of his cowl. "Now get off me, you big log."

When Superman didn't comply, Bruce raised his hands to shove him off his lap. Of course that didn't work. He was about to complain when Superman's hands were on his armor again. This time with an urgency unlike before.

"H-hey," Bruce began uncertainly. Not that sex after sparring was unwelcome, but shouldn't they at least get somewhere more private?

"Take it off." Clark demanded, his voice cracking. He was struggling with the hidden clasps. His fingers were testing where the chest piece could be detached from the shoulder piece.

"A mattress behind my back would be welcome-" Bruce snapped. He watched as Clark tore off his gauntlet and threw it far away to the other side of the room. "That's worth more than your entire retirement income."

"I know, I know." Clark buried his face in the curve of Bruce's neck and swallowed. His voice was not half as strong as his grip. "Please don't wear this anymore."

Bruce cocked his eyebrow. He knew Clark couldn't see his mocking expression anyway. "What, kevlar?"

"Kryptonite. You'll never be fighting against me. So don't wear it." Clark was breathing heavily into his neck. His breath was hot and his voice was quivering ever so slightly. "I'll spar with Conner. And I'll make sure I have full control before I go back onto the field as Superman."

"I've always had Kryptonite in my belt, Clark." Bruce scowled. "You've never had a problem with it."

"Maybe that's part of the reason, isn't it?" Clark's expression was pained when he looked up. Gently he caressed Bruce's face. "No one is exposed to as much alien radiation as you are. It's always these little things that count. The Kryptonite that you carry around in your utility belt. The Kryptonite-laced equipment and weapons that you own. You can defeat me without Kryptonite. You have a great mind, a brilliantly inventive mind. So seal them away. Take care of yourself. Promise me."

Bruce looked away, until he was forced by the overwhelming silence in the room to answer. "Fine." He ground out through clenched teeth. "But we're still sparring. I'll learn to defeat you without Kryptonite. Watch me."

"I know you will." Clark pressed his lips onto Bruce's. He read the man's surprise through the quick defensive posture he put up and the back arching away from him. Then Bruce eased into his kiss and returned it with all the fervor of his superhero alter ego.

"Bed. Now." Bruce panted, and Clark grinned. He picked him up and scanned the corridor with x-ray vision. Then he raced them both to Superman's private quarters. Not even Flash would catch him at this speed.

"Whoever finds the leftovers of our training room is gonna be pissed." Bruce murmured.

But truth be told, he couldn't care less.


	12. The Recovery

"I could destroy that machine if I wanted to."

Bruce looked up warily from his invention. He was following the blueprints left behind by his older self, to build the time machine that would take him home. There was some form of progress standing on the table, with a similar base as his older self had managed.

"Go ahead." Bruce pulled down his goggles and refocused on the welding. "I'll deep fry you for dinner."

Clark placed two cups of coffee on Bruce's workspace. "It's very delicate, isn't it?"

"Batman's time machine. Thought up by a man with thirty more years worth of knowledge and experience." Bruce scowled, tracing the drawing with his finger. "What do you think?"

"Looks high-tech."

"Don't touch it with your dirty hands."

"I just washed them. With detergent." Clark said defensively.

"By dirty I mean wet." Bruce glared at him through the white dancing sparks. "No sex for three months if you dare get one water molecule onto my stuff."

"That amount of time is all I'm gonna get, and you're going to threaten me with that?"

"Did you come to distract me, or threaten me?"

"I came to say I love you, I miss you, I can't live without you, and I'm going to let you go."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow at him. "Last two phrases. Very contradicting."

"I love you and I want you to have a happy future." Clark smiled at him. "It wouldn't be right if I forced you to stay here with me, would it?"

"At least you know so." Bruce continued attaching some colorful wires. "When did you reach that conclusion?"

"Some time in the last three months."

"Broad."

"Well," Clark sat himself down at the opposite end of the table. "When did you reach the conclusion that you wanted to have sex with me?"

"Some time during that family dinner." Bruce replied instantly.

"Oh." Clark's eyebrows furrowed. "Disturbing."

"My mind works simultaneously on several levels." Bruce retorted pointedly.

"Right. So there's level one, maintaining civilized conversation with Tim and Barbara. Level two, defending pumpkin soup against Dick and Jason. Level three, working out the implications of Bruce Wayne's altered time travel machine. And level four, how to seduce the distressed Kryptonian after throwing him a bottle of antidepressants at the speed of a pistol bullet."

"Correct." Bruce answered nonchalantly, sparing him no attention.

Clark rested his cheek on his palm and watched Bruce work. His steaming coffee remained untouched, but Clark didn't mind. Bruce concentrating on his work was a lovely sight.

"How long are you from finishing your machine?"

Bruce retraced his drawings from top to bottom. "Three months, give or take. When the last hummingbird leaves Kansas, I suppose."

"What's that weird fascination with hummingbirds?"

"I came with them, when they flocked onto your fields. It's only logical that I leave with them."

"Bruce Wayne, spouting teenage romance novels while inventing a time machine."

"Building." Bruce corrected him. "I didn't invent it."

"Bruce Wayne, spouting teenage romance novels while building the time machine that Bruce Wayne invented. How's that?"

"That's better. Except it's adult."

"Oh I don't think that qualifies as-" _Okay._ Bruce managed to shove him off his chair, his equipment forgotten. Then his hands were roaming across Clark's chest. Clark felt Bruce's fingers attempting to pull down his zipper.

"That's porn."

"Porn with plot. Adult romance novels." Bruce whispered into his ear, his voice seductively low. "What did you think people are selling on the market these days?"

"Nothing involving sex next to a giant unfinished time machine that might get squashed by a super powered alien, which might banish us to God knows where."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Fine, scoot two feet farther from here. And don't electrocute me."

"Roger that."

They were halfway through rubbing their cocks together when Clark sat up with sudden clarity.

"Fuck, don't stop-" Bruce moaned, still thrusting wantonly against Clark's hips.

"Damian and Alfred-" Clark warned belatedly. At the same moment the door to the Batcave opened and Clark swept them under the table.

Bruce jolted up, his head half an inch from hitting the underside of his desk. It was Clark's hand that cushioned that hit, but the alien's palm was little better than metal.

"Ow, fuck!" Bruce whispered, low enough that only Clark could hear. He curled up cautiously and rubbed the back of his head.

"Sorry." Clark grinned sheepishly.

"-should not be creating this machine." Damian's sharp voice shot across the cave.

"-is solely Master Bruce's decision." Alfred's calm voice countered. There were rhythmic sounds of metal on ground that was his walking cane tapping by his side. His wheelchair lasted not a month after Bruce's return. He was now capable of walking down the damp slippery grounds of the Batcave.

"-deserves to retake the mantle of Batman."

Bruce bit back his retort, his willpower solely from the fact that he was naked from the waist down. Clark's breath was still at his ear, his hand slowly pumping Bruce's cock. The both of them, half-naked and hiding under the table. Bruce panting and trying not to moan.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who wants you to stay." Clark whispered into his ear. He dragged his hand down Bruce's length with just the right amount of pressure. Bruce's tortured exhale was enough encouragement.

"I'm going to have a long talk with Damian tonight." Bruce gritted his teeth. He spoke at a volume that only super hearing could discern.

"Why not now?" Clark asked teasingly. Before Bruce could complain, he lowered himself on Bruce's cock. Then he was sucking Bruce in the little space that they had, twirling his tongue around the spongy tip. Drawing out the salty bitterness that was Bruce's unique taste.

"Jesus Christ-" If Bruce wanted to kick him away, his motivation was shattered the moment Clark's wet mouth engulfed his throbbing erection. Nevertheless he did his best to scoot away from him. _Wrong move._ A second later he heard the loud clang of his elbow hitting the side of his desk. Clark almost spluttered.

The silence from behind the half-finished machine was staggering. Bruce dared not breathe.

"What was that?" Damian's voice was suspicious.

Bruce was using every known language to curse the alien sitting beside him. Clark's face was still unbelievably smug.

"There are always bats in a Batcave, Sir. Animals can't refrain from moving. Some might have crashed into your father's equipment." Alfred explained, his voice deadpan. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for dinner."

"I will discuss the matter with Father when he returns." Damian said resolutely. He stepped past the threshold without looking back. "And I want marshmallows in my hot chocolate, Pennyworth."

"Of course, Master Damian." Alfred took one last glance at the Batcave before shutting the door.

The moment the lock clicked, Bruce scrambled up from under the desk. "You insufferable, shameless, thoughtless-"

For a moment he couldn't read Clark's face, and there was no movement following him. Then Bruce bent down to look, only to find the alien curled up. He was clutching his abdomen, resisting the overwhelming urge to laugh. "Sorry," Clark managed when Bruce's glare reached him a second time. "I couldn't throw away that opportunity."

"My older self managed sixty years without ruining his image of being a good father and son. I almost ruined it in three months, because of _you_."

"Your definition of being a good father and son is not having sex?"

"Having sex behind closed doors and not blinding my family with inappropriate carnal behaviors."

"I'm sure Alfred had a very good idea of what was going on with or without the safety of a concrete wall."

"Get out before you break my desk." Bruce growled.

"Come on, you enjoyed it." Clark climbed out of the cramped space and stretched. "Still horny?"

"Very." Bruce pulled his pants up and tugged his erection back into his underpants. "My bedroom exists for a purpose."

"Sure." Clark did the same. He was still wearing a silly smile, like a kindergartener who got away with eating chocolate in class.

"How's the world of rainbows and butterflies?" Bruce asked casually with his back facing Clark.

"Pardon?"

"You look happy." Bruce said, turning back to him. "Either that medication is working, or you're easing back into positivity. It's… endearing. That smile on your face." He only looked away when he spoke the last phrase.

For a long moment, Clark stood, finally feeling each movement of his facial muscles in his full awareness. Then he smiled again. It wasn't that hard, wasn't that daunting to pull off naturally. "I never could have done it without you." He admitted earnestly.

"Keep it up, Clark." Bruce flung a cardigan over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. "You need it more than I do."


	13. The Departure

Two more days until the end of September.

The time travel machine was safely stored in the Kent Farmhouse. Finished and wrapped in waterproof sheeting. Bruce insisted on a date, a time, and a venue. _You push it back once, and you'll forever lose the courage._ Those were his words.

They spent the remaining days traveling to places the older Bruce used to visit. The nights as Superman and Batman, retired superhero and deceased vigilante. Legends coming to life once again. Dick was having the time of his life, returning to his lifelong career as Nightwing. Damian, despite his age, seemed to relish in the little time he had left to play Robin by Batman's side. He did make a few customizations to Robin's uniform. Bruce was relieved that his son's sense of style had become somewhat more conventional.

On the last evening, Clark found Bruce crouched before his own grave. He was staring at the engravings on the stone.

"I bid everyone in the household goodbye. I've come to him last, but I figured I owe him a lot." Bruce said when Clark approached him.

"He made very daring choices. Courageous choices. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed, or that I'm not still impressed right now. He and you blow me away every single time." Clark sat down on the grass. He looked absently at the tulips that Bruce had put in front of the grave. A few feet to the side of Bruce's grave were his parents', and theirs were also graced with the same flowers.

"Diana called." Clark said casually. Bruce didn't look his way, but he was always listening even when he pretended not to be. "Steve has gotten better. His surgery scheduled for tomorrow may be his last in a long while."

Bruce nodded soundlessly in response.

"And," Clark smiled. "She said you are a savior, after all. You found a broken man and patched him up again."

"I didn't." Bruce grunted. "He found himself. I just gave him a kick in the ass."

"That was…" Clark breathed out a sigh. "More than enough. So thank you."

Bruce brushed the leaves and mud off his lap and stood up. "I'm not good at this."

"At what, chatting with me?"

"This… sentimental shit." Bruce gestured at Clark, as if the words Clark spoke materialized and he was waving away the floating alphabets. "Have you got your uniform?"

"I'm wearing it inside." Clark glimpsed down at his chest to make sure that was right. The blue hem just below his neckline answered his momentary uncertainty.

"Good. We're not staying for dinner tonight."

"Oh, but wouldn't Alfred-?"

"Which is why I arranged the family dinner last Friday. I made that clear to Alfred. We're going to spend tonight whichever way we want."

"Which is?"

"Smallville." Bruce smirked. He curled his arms around Clark's neck. "Fly me there."

* * *

The thick paste brewing in the saucepan was looking more promising than last time.

"See? It never said anything about orange food coloring." Clark held up the recipe. "It's supposed to look yellowish."

"I scored a hundred per cent on the Farnsworth-Munsell hundred-hue test." Bruce snapped. "I know what color pumpkin is."

"But this isn't just pumpkin, Bruce." Clark sighed in exasperation. "It's pumpkin _soup_. It's not supposed to be the exact same color."

"It's all about presentation, Kansas."

Clark rolled his eyes. He tasted the paste and aimed the shaker at the saucepan.

"What are you doing?" Bruce growled. He snatched the shaker out of Clark's hand. "We're not adding salt."

"It tastes bland." Clark dipped his finger into the paste and held it out to Bruce. He hesitated for a moment before licking the sauce off Clark's finger. "See?"

"No." Bruce deliberated whether to bite Clark's finger. Thankfully he decided that his teeth was more precious. "It's fine. The recipe didn't say anything about salt. It's not even on the ingredients list."

"It says _season to taste_. Add salt until it tastes right."

"Follow the recipe." Bruce snarled. He continued measuring the thin cream. He was waiting for it to set at exactly one hundred and twenty five milliliters.

Clark sprinkled some salt into the paste anyway when Bruce wasn't looking. _Superspeed salt sprinkling. One of a thousand ways to save lives in the mundane everyday life of a Kryptonian superhero._ Bruce looked up suspiciously.

"What?" Clark crossed his arms and stared back defiantly.

"Nothing. You look smug."

"Maybe I'm just fascinated that someone thinks one milliliter of cream is going to make a difference to a pot of pumpkin soup."

"When the Los Alamos National Laboratory slapped their lithium-six and lithium-seven isotopes together, they didn't expect the Shrimp to blow up into a forty-seven thousand feet high mushroom cloud."

"Bruce. You're brewing pumpkin soup. Not a dry fuel thermonuclear hydrogen bomb."

"Improvisation is dangerous. Last time our soup burned down our throats because you added ginger." Bruce glared at him. "Recklessly. Like the way you fight."

Clark suppressed his urge to argue how that was in no way even remotely comparable. Bruce continued to focus his attention on the one hundred and twenty four point seven five milliliters of thin cream.

What would normally take less than an hour to cook resulted in two hours worth of banter. That, with a side of somewhat good-natured hide and seek of questionable ingredients.

At last, they looked at the yellowish orange substance with awe. Bruce carefully placed a parsley leaf at the center. It didn't sink.

"It's done." He announced. He took a step back to look at the pot in its widescreen glory. It was framed by the million drops of liquid that exploded across the kitchen counter.

Clark nodded. He returned with a camera and snapped a picture.

* * *

The soup tasted glorious.

If Bruce demanded his gratitude for the accuracy of ingredients, Clark would give it. He would probably give away his cape for another cooking session with Bruce. He would give away his Fortress for another photograph with Bruce. A photo of Bruce standing two feet away from his soup, looking oddly proud of his accomplishment.

Clark would give away his _life_ for another day with Bruce.

But he learned. He got better. Bruce taught him to get better, and he owed it to Bruce to live his life with meaning. Even the coming years without Bruce by his side.

Bruce was still smiling at him, dipping crusty bread into the creamy golden mixture. How he had started off as Clark's hallucination was beyond him. How Clark was dumb enough to think his brain could project such a beautiful image into his reality was beyond him.

 _Six months._ He had had the luxury of spending six months with Bruce. Now it was coming to an end.

Bruce said something about aching muscles and being hungry, right after dinner. Then they were standing with their hands on each other's hips. If conversations had happened before or after the kiss, Clark had had no recollection of them. He just remembered the ghostly touch of Bruce's skin on his, the taste of Bruce on his lips.

They fell in bed, clutching and caressing and gripping. They made love in tantalizing slowness. Each moment was an amalgam of sensations that Clark vowed to remember forevermore.

He laid down beside Bruce, feeling the subtle movements of his chest as he breathed. He didn't dare sleep, didn't dare lose any second of the night to sweet unconsciousness.

Eventually he did, when he felt Bruce's arms curled around his neck. It was a comforting embrace. As comforting as Bruce could manage with their sleeping postures. Then he was falling into deep, dreamless sleep, as Bruce had taught him.

No screams, no pleas, no blood. Just him and Bruce, in silent, everlasting peace.

* * *

"Your research…?"

"Is all in my head." Bruce confirmed.

"And the machine, the calculations? The waterproofing?"

"It's fine, Clark. It works. I tested it this morning, before you planted it in the middle of Kansas."

"It's just a bit of extra walking." A few more minutes to spend with you. Besides, Clark hadn't put the machine that far out. It was within viewing distance of the farmhouse. Just where Bruce had first arrived to this time. And… there it was. A portal standing in the middle of the field, lined by the orange glow of the sun setting behind it.

Bruce pressed a few buttons and the engines roared to life. Sparks of white converged to become an entrance to another time and space. Bruce would cross that portal, and never again reappear in his life.

"Hey, you all right?" Bruce came to stand in front of him. He was still so real. Visible. Touchable.

"I'm… feeling lonely, I guess." Clark chuckled lightly to himself. "I know I've gotten much more than I could ever ask for, but… I'll miss you. A lot."

"And I'll miss you."

The kiss was soft, warm, with a bittersweet quality to it that Clark would never forget.

Bruce pulled away from the kiss, then he leaned in again, resting his cheek on Clark's shoulder. "I cannot consciously, in good will, create a time travel machine to bridge a thirty year gap." He whispered softly. "Once is pushing the bounds. My return would severely disrupt the space-time continuum."

Clark's heart sank. He knew this. He didn't need Bruce's justification to explain why he couldn't come back. He…

"But I can travel cross-dimensionally, when the time comes." Bruce continued, his breathing light on Clark's neck. His grip on Clark's arms was firm. "So if you trust me, to find a cure, to outlive my older self, to create a dimension travel machine, and to visit you again from my parallel universe... Come here next spring, when the hummingbirds return."

Clark blinked slowly, as if the meaning of Bruce's words was too dense for him to process. As if his words were too good to be true, and he didn't want to believe them. But Bruce was looking at him with hope, and that look was all he needed to trust the man.

Then Bruce released his grip, and took one step away. The portal was right behind him. Silver white strands of light wrapped around Bruce's body, until he disappeared into a space that Clark could not follow.

The last hummingbird took off from the fields as the portal stopped whirring. Clark spent minutes staring at its graceful form, watching the flapping wings. It finally disappeared beyond the dense mists.

Clark felt the ghost of a touch on his cheek, just enough warmth to remind him of Bruce's promise.

"I'll wait for you." He said quietly. "When the hummingbirds return, I'll be here."


	14. The Return

_White ceilings. White curtains._

 _The distinctive smell of iodoform in hospitals. The beeping of the heart monitor. The accelerated beating._

 _Someone's hand firmly gripping his. Someone repeatedly saying his name._

 _Bruce. Bruce, can you hear me?_

"Clark." He managed. His teeth, his gums, his jaw… they all felt unused.

Clark's hands were shaking. Bruce's glance swept past the fresh flowers on the bedside table.

 _Kal was devastated. He visited you every day, brought flowers to your bedside and spoke to your unconscious form._ Diana's words reverberated in his mind.

"Oh, God. God. You've woken. He's woken." Clark's voice was thick with emotion. He was talking to someone, choking back his relief.

Doctors and nurses streamed into the room. Clark was squeezed to the back, lost in Bruce's vision. Bruce's heart rate spiked. He could hear the beeping reaching new heights. Then his hand was clasped tightly by the familiar warmth.

"Shh… I'm here. I've always been here." Clark's soft voice, bringing more comfort than any amount of morphine injected into his body. "Stay with me."

Bruce watched Clark through the sweat that had accumulated along his eyelashes. With all his remaining strength, he nodded. It was a promise. An answer to Clark's request.

 _I'll stay with you._

* * *

Bruce had never asked when Clark had proposed during his stay in the future. At times he wanted to, but he decided it would be nice to be surprised some day. If the man could manage it.

Clark really couldn't, Bruce decided. He watched as the man, dressed all too formally, circled the bed with a bouquet of roses. Clark sat down on the couch and cleared his voice nervously.

"So, there's something on my mind that… I couldn't bear not telling. I understand if this comes across as ridiculous… or impossible." Clark lowered his gaze. He twirled the bouquet in his hands. "I'm also terrified that this would destroy our friendship… I really hope not. These few months, while you were unconscious, I thought a lot about the possibilities between us. And I realized…" He finally mustered enough courage to look into Bruce's eyes. "That I love you. I can't live without you. I want to spend every day with you… and for us to be something… more."

Bruce listened with a degree of patience that he hardly knew he possessed. There was something endearing about a nervous Clark, coming to his bedside with a rehearsed confession, and stumbling over all his sentences anyway. So he waited, and watched Clark fumble in his pocket to pull out a blue velvety box.

"It's the best I can afford." Clark chuckled sheepishly. He flipped it open. It was a thin silver ring. Even from a distance, Bruce could read his name and Clark's engraved onto the inner surface. It was perfect.

Clark, with all his traditional upbringing, got down on one knee in the hospital room. "So… will you marry me?"

Bruce watched the hopeful expression last for a few seconds. Then the light dimmed slightly into awkwardness and disappointment.

Bruce smiled. He needn't wait, really.

Immediately Clark's face lit up in disbelief. The disappointment clouding his face gave way to an ecstatic grin.

"Yes, Clark." Bruce stated firmly. Warmth was spreading across his body. He just promised a lifetime to the man before him, and he had no regrets. "Yes I will."

* * *

Thirty years.

It took thirty years for Bruce to invent a dimension travel machine. The same way it took thirty years for the other Bruce to invent a time travel machine. Different purposes, but equally challenging.

Ironically, Bruce never even _got_ cancer. Storing away all his Kryptonite in lead-lined cases, as per Clark's advice, was enough. Prevention was the best cure. There was a price to pay, so Bruce trained harder and fought smarter. Trained hard enough to restrain Superman without the aid of Kryptonite.

There were times that Superman was mind-controlled, poisoned, or borderline driven to insanity. But all those risks combined was not worth ten years spent bed-ridden, battling a fatal illness.

Nevertheless, Bruce played safe and developed his own medication. In case Tim ever developed the same cancer from restraining Conner with Kryptonite... _Touch wood._

And Clark… Clark never questioned Bruce's fascination with travelling across parallel universes. He always just assumed that Bruce was interested in quantum physics, which he was. When Bruce said he wanted to visit an old friend, Clark had let him.

Bruce spared a few moments in front of the mirror before activating the machine. Would Clark recognize him? He was hardly as old or as fragile as the depiction in the Wayne Manor. He still had a healthy percentage of muscle mass. And a wonderful marriage. There was nothing more he could ask for. He wouldn't think his appearance had changed much in the last ten or fifteen years.

In the end, it didn't matter whether Clark recognized him or not. There was little chance that he would be there, standing in the fields, waiting for his return. Bruce had taught him to let go of his past.

With the press of a button, the portal sparked to life. Bruce checked the geographical coordinates within the chosen parallel universe. For the last time, he ticked off all his mental check boxes. Then he stepped through the portal.

Bruce landed, albeit awkwardly, on the same meadows. The afternoon sun draped the fields in a sheen of warm orange. He turned around. The entrance was a frameless white screen in this world. It would likely disintegrate when he hopped through it again. He could only come once, maybe to stay for as long as a day. Travelling across the sixth dimension into a selection of parallel universes was much more unstable than fourth dimensional journeys across time. Giving him twenty four hours was the most his machine could do. He watched the few dots in the sky approach, forming into flapping wings and defined beaks.

 _The hummingbirds have come. But where is Clark?_

He was about to lose hope when he felt the familiar breath on his neck. First the warmth around his waist, then the comforting weight pressed against his back. The man he was waiting for had come soundlessly, hovering above the grass and mud. Like thirty years ago, when he was hovering above the timber planks in his own house. When Bruce first met this Clark.

"Clark."

Clark's arms turned him around, just so their eyes could meet. Clark's eyes were sparkling with delight. His broad grin was almost bright enough to rival the sun behind them. Then Bruce was pulled into a tight embrace. It was warm and strong. It sparked so many memories.

"You kept your promise."

Clark shut his eyes and smiled. A part of him had rejected Bruce's promise, rejecting it to save himself the heartbreak. He didn't want to wait under the orange skies only to realize that Bruce had forgotten about him over the years. But a part of him believed it.

To Clark, it had only been six months. To Bruce, it had been thirty long years.

Bruce pulled away gently. Clark was healthy, smiling, and dazzlingly beautiful. There was purpose in his eyes. Determination. He had learned to cope with Bruce's mortality. He had overcome it, and had gotten stronger. Stronger, but no less passionate.

 _Come back when the hummingbirds return._

Bruce buried his face into Clark's neck. He was smiling to himself, at the sheer impossibility of it all.

Neither had thought it was possible. Each embraced the possibility that they would be abandoned. Some time between the months and the years, they thought they were bound to separate. But it was possible. And they made it.

 _You kept your promise._

"And you kept yours."


End file.
